Alexander Sholt Character Analysis

Dad said his old man thought the law was there to protect some people and punish others. And Aboriginal people were the ‘others.’

My science teacher said that just because two things happened together didn’t mean one was because of the other, or as she put it: ‘correlation does not imply causation.’

But Dad said that was scientist-talk not police-talk, and if two things happened together you’d suspect the first thing caused the second until it could provide you with an alibi.

“Maybe I didn’t see anything. Or maybe I did. Depends.”

“Depends on what?”

She looked at me—or, no, she didn’t, she looked into the space I was standing in for a second, then away again. “On if you’ll believe me.”

When your Nanna was little the government took her away from her mum. They had a law back then that let them take Aboriginal kids just because they were Aboriginal . . .

“It seems to me he might be a little like my father—the kind of cop who thinks the rules don’t apply to everyone equally. He could’ve been too deferential to the Sholt family, given them special treatment . . . maybe let a few things slide about that home that he now sees he should have looked into.”

“We’re police officers,” he said, and I heard the pride in his voice. “We never stop looking for the missing.”

“He eats what’s inside our insides. The colours that live in our spirits. Do you think I was always a grey girl?”

“It is your grey. Like mine, but not. Everyone’s grey is their own.”

I can endure.

As long as I remember where I come from.

Who I come from.

People can time travel inside their heads.

Remember into the past.

Imagine into the future.

But sometimes you can’t escape the now.

If I’m dead inside, I’m free.

No.

If I’m dead inside I’m dead inside.

“If you can name it, you can catch it,” she calls. “If you can catch it, you can fight it. Everything has its opposite. Remember!”

No ticking clocks.

Just choices.

They measure the distance between who we are and who we’re turning into.

“This gray’s yours,” I say. “My colours are mine. I’m not carrying your shame for what you did. Only my pride. For surviving you.”

And wherever we went, we went together.

Dad said his old man thought the law was there to protect some people and punish others. And Aboriginal people were the ‘others.’

My science teacher said that just because two things happened together didn’t mean one was because of the other, or as she put it: ‘correlation does not imply causation.’

But Dad said that was scientist-talk not police-talk, and if two things happened together you’d suspect the first thing caused the second until it could provide you with an alibi.

“Maybe I didn’t see anything. Or maybe I did. Depends.”

“Depends on what?”

She looked at me—or, no, she didn’t, she looked into the space I was standing in for a second, then away again. “On if you’ll believe me.”

When your Nanna was little the government took her away from her mum. They had a law back then that let them take Aboriginal kids just because they were Aboriginal . . .

“It seems to me he might be a little like my father—the kind of cop who thinks the rules don’t apply to everyone equally. He could’ve been too deferential to the Sholt family, given them special treatment . . . maybe let a few things slide about that home that he now sees he should have looked into.”

“We’re police officers,” he said, and I heard the pride in his voice. “We never stop looking for the missing.”

“He eats what’s inside our insides. The colours that live in our spirits. Do you think I was always a grey girl?”

“It is your grey. Like mine, but not. Everyone’s grey is their own.”

I can endure.

As long as I remember where I come from.

Who I come from.

People can time travel inside their heads.

Remember into the past.

Imagine into the future.

But sometimes you can’t escape the now.

If I’m dead inside, I’m free.

No.

If I’m dead inside I’m dead inside.

“If you can name it, you can catch it,” she calls. “If you can catch it, you can fight it. Everything has its opposite. Remember!”

No ticking clocks.

Just choices.

They measure the distance between who we are and who we’re turning into.

“This gray’s yours,” I say. “My colours are mine. I’m not carrying your shame for what you did. Only my pride. For surviving you.”

And wherever we went, we went together.